


World-Weary

by BastardPrince



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Gen, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sharing a Bed, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 17:52:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17248754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BastardPrince/pseuds/BastardPrince
Summary: Shovels. Coming closer. Tommy struggles harder, sweat dripping off his face. He's stuck. He can't escape. He gasps for air, but the dirt is unyielding.---Tommy Shelby has a nightmare. His little brother helps him out.





	World-Weary

Tommy is suffocating. 

He's underground, buried by tonnes and tonnes of earth, surrounded on all sides. The tunnel he had been digging is so narrow that his shoulders are cramped, his arms confined. His breath quickens, panicky. Why can't he move? He struggles more, hysteria rising in his chest. The dirt is so close to his face that he can't help but inhale it. Instinct tells him to turn his face, but it doesn't help; the packed earth is still unbearably close to him. 

Just when he thinks it can't get any worse, he hears a sound. It is just barely audible over his rapid heartbeat and harsh breathing. 

_Clank._

_Clank._

_Clank._

_Clank._

Shovels. Coming closer. Tommy struggles harder, sweat dripping off his face. He's stuck. He can't escape. He gasps for air, but the dirt is unyielding. 

As he blacks out, Tommy prays he suffocates before the Germans reach him. 

* * *

When Tommy wakes up, he can't move. His blankets are wrapped tightly around his legs and shoulders from his fitful sleep. He's soaked with sweat and his face is wet with tears.

_Oh God. I'm still underground! It was real, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't fuckin’ breathe, I'm going to die –_

When he hits the floor, Tommy shocks himself out of his flashback. In his panic, he had rolled right off his narrow bed.

The blankets have loosened around his body, and he kicks them off, desperate to disentangle himself.

The cold air hits his sweat-soaked shirt, and Tommy lies on the ground shaking, half from panic and half from cold. A sob wrenches itself from his throat and a trembling hand flies to his mouth to muffle the noise.

He closes his eyes, dark lashes clumping together wetly. This is the fourth night in a row. He's badly shaken and fatigued from nights of lost sleep.

_I can't go on like this. I can't. I'll fuckin’ kill myself. There's no honour in it, but it's better than living like this, as a useless, wretched –_

“Tommy?”

He flinches and looks in the direction of the sound. It's Finn, his small hand on the door handle, peering in at Tommy.

“Come –" Tommy has to stop and clear his throat. “Come 'ere, Finn.”

He sits up, leaning against his bed, quickly wiping his nose and eyes on his hand. Finn creeps in and stands next to Tommy, curiosity clear on his small face.

“Why are you on the ground?”

“I, uh, I fell. What're you doin' up?”

Finn shrugs and yawns. “I heard you crying. You always make it better when I cry, so I thought, I thought maybe you needed someone to make it better.”

Tommy studies Finn, taking in the genuine expression on his face. He's right. Finn is exactly what Tommy needed right now; someone innocent and untainted by the war. Someone to remind him that he's home.

Staggering to his feet, Tommy tosses the blankets back onto his bed and steps over to the wardrobe by the window. He strips off his damp shirt and grabs a new one, pulling it over his head.

He turns back to Finn, who is falling asleep on his feet, blinking heavily with exhaustion.

“Let's get you back to bed, mate. Pol'll have my head if you're dead on your feet tomorrow.”

Finn nods and rubs his eyes with one hand, extending the other to Tommy. Tommy walks over and takes Finn's small, soft hand in his own larger, rougher one and leads him towards the door. They head down the dark hallway, socked feet quiet against the wooden floor.

When they reach Finn's room, Tommy releases the boy's hand and kneels to rekindle the fire while Finn clambers into bed.

Once there are flames crackling in the fireplace, Tommy turns to Finn, who is valiantly trying to stay awake.

“Finn,” Tommy starts, “Would it bother you if I stayed 'ere with you? Just for tonight?”

Finn shakes his head and yawns.

Climbing over Finn so that his back will be to the wall, Tommy slides under the blankets with his little brother. He settles in beside Finn, watching his small chest rise and fall.

_I'm home. I must be, because Finn was never in France. I'm home._

It's the last thought he has before he falls asleep, calmer than he's been in days.

* * *

Hours later, Finn bounds up the stairs and runs into his room. Tommy's still asleep, so Finn shakes his shoulder to wake him.

“Tommy! Tommy! Aunt Polly said you gotta get up!”

Blinking blearily, Tommy looks up at Finn.

“What's goin' on?”

“John's waitin' for you downstairs!”

“Alright, alright. Tell 'im I'll be there in a minute.” Tommy swings his legs off the bed and stretches.

Finn is turning to run back downstairs when Tommy stops him.

“Mate, what time is it?”

“Half past eight!” Finn disappears out the door and down the stairs.

It's the latest Tommy's slept all week. He's not naïve enough to think he's cured, but it's a start. Tommy runs a hand through his hair before shuffling down the hallway to his room.

Last night's shirt is still on the floor in front of his wardrobe and his blankets are still in a pile on his bed, but it feels like a different room than last night.

He opens the curtains so that a shaft of watery morning light can brighten his room. Bracing himself on the windowsill, Tommy looks out at Small Heath.

It's not glamourous, but it's home.

He allows himself a few moments of reflection before heading back to the wardrobe to get dressed. After all, John's waiting for him downstairs and there's business to be done.


End file.
